


Weird

by Cers



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, C2E127, Coda, Episode: c02e127 Sarsaparilla Licorice and Red Hot, Gen, Introspection, What-If, coda fic, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29831646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cers/pseuds/Cers
Summary: Spell Level:9thSchool:IllusionCast Time:1 ActionComponents:V,SDuration:Concentration for 1 Minute.Drawing on the deepest fears of a group of creatures, you create illusory creatures in their minds, visible only to them. Each creature in a 30-foot-radius sphere centred on a point of your choice within range must make a Wisdom saving throw. On a failed save, a creature becomes frightened for the duration. The illusion calls on the creature’s deepest fears, manifesting its worst nightmares as an implacable threat.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 52





	Weird

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired after a conversation on the ETFC about how the beginning of E128 may go.

A raised alarm is not a common occurrence within the Vergesson Sanatorium. Increased security after five years ago doubled down on that. Irritated, he twists on the spot, abandoning his work and summons guards to follow.  A silent flick of his hand secures the room where he was working. The man who raised the alarm babbles on with descriptions of three individuals, and Trent’s mood perks up in recognition. 

Well, now. 

With a stride typically unfounded in one his age, he exits the doorway and beelines straight for his quarry. The man is still breathlessly wittering on and Trent raises one hand to silence him. The air seems fresher now. The grass greener. His day just became a  _ lot _ more interesting. 

He swallows the gathering saliva in his throat and converts his bristling anticipation into a faster pace. 

Barely halfway across the gardens, a roar of tremendous magnitude interrupts them, and he whirls around. No sound of beating wings had heralded its arrival. Its timing, uncanny. Dragons do not frequent these mountains and certainly would not attack this place without cause. If the intruders are who he believes them to be, then three is less than half their number within. They are split- a team watching for interruption. This is a ruse and distraction, nothing more. Those guards with him startle and rally, ready to take on the beast. He has no time for such fools. Haste is tantamount. 

With practised articulation, he steps forward and leaves the gardens behind him. 

* * *

The pungent aroma of a charred and sizzled corpse greets him from somewhere nearby, but he already knows it is not whom he seeks- merely an obstacle to these thieves. Stepping forward and hearing the words of a relocation spell, he flicks his wrist silently and ends such notions. Oh, _ no. _ They will not be leaving. Not with  _ his _ property. Or the veilers. 

There is a tendrilous satisfaction and vindication in seeing that his conclusions were correct; Bren has returned home. 

“Well,” he greets the trio below him. “If this isn’t extremely curious.”

He hears the gasps of the females, the shock at his interrupting and arrival, but he cares not for them. His eyes are locked upon the man he personally trained. The one who likely left a trail of corpses in his wake and destruction in his anger. The one who dug deep into those ingrained teachings to end things bloodily to achieve his ends. 

Bren never was the quiet type with his killings. Always had to be… theatrical. Astrid was precise, clean, and focused. Eodwulf blunter in his work- as long as his target died, he was satisfied. But Bren...no. Bren liked _ flair. _ He liked the destruction and the power. 

He liked the _heat._

He savoured the mutilated aftermath of his work and what art he could craft. 

No one else sculpted with fire quite like Bren did. 

He doesn’t need to probe Bren’s mind to know that he is one step away from spell-slinging Trent’s way. How folly it would be-and he can see the inferno blazing in those hateful eyes. He was operating at a blaze. He was not smouldering or embering, no. This was a raging Bren. And he knows it too. Judging by the slight singe gracing the halfling, he was still holding back however - or she would be just as seared. It matters not. There is plenty of time to correct that.

Taking a step closer, challenging,  _ daring  _ them to attack, he interlocks his hands and smiles tightly. 

“I am  _ very  _ interested in what, exactly, you are doing in  _ my _ domain and stealing from  _ my _ private vault. Those items,” he raises an eyebrow to the tiefling. “Are not yours.” 

She responds by taking a half-step back and tightening her grip on the box. It rattles a little with its contents. Her fearful eyes flicker between him and Bren, and he does not miss the smock of blood adorning her painfully-white coat. 

Purity in these walls never lasts long. He makes sure of it.  But this time, he didn’t have to. His protegé saw to that. 

“Well, Bren-?” He’s pleased to see a snarl curling on Bren’s lips at this. A flash of teeth threatens him but the growl remains in his throat. Trent sees the battle-stance, hands twitching, eyes calculating. Trying to figure out an escape. An escape that will not happen. “I did not expect to find you back here so  _ soon _ ,” and at this he takes another step forward, pinning them solidly between him and the barrier. “Did you perhaps wish a more in-depth tour after your previous visitation?” A vein twitches at Bren’s forehead. “That could have been easily arranged for  _ you _ , Bren.” 

His answer is a flaring of nostrils and a huff of defiance. Bren shifts his centre of balance, some poor attempt at an escape half-concocted, no doubt. 

Did he not teach him to not rely upon luck? How cheap.

The females are cowering. He doesn’t look her way but he notices the halfling attempting to slowly nock a new bolt in her contraption. He untangles his hands ready to deflect but keeps them front and centre. Visible. 

“I thought you were travelling north- with Lady de Rogna?” 

This elicits a response. “She is otherwise detained and no longer requires our  _ services _ .” It is all but spat in Trent’s direction. Good, he’s angry. Anger leads to error in judgement. 

Bren never did grasp that particular lesson well. 

It is a show. They all know it. He delights in it. He  _ lauds  _ over it. The flicker of recognition in Bren’s face lets him know that he has understood the underlying meaning: I know what became of her and have no issue utilising this against you. 

Good. It is good that they are on the same page; that they still speak the same language. A little less re-education he will have to do.

He  _ despises _ repeating himself.

A movement catches his eyes and the flit to its origin. Bren’s hand tightens around a new weapon. It is not a mere trinket of an item but perhaps mostly expended by now if the lack of soldiers stopping them is anything to judge by. He can handle that, and then put it to better use elsewhere. 

“I had hoped you would return here voluntarily though perhaps under less… invasive intentions.” He lifts his chin, peering down his nose to the prodigal student. “Nevertheless, accommodations can be made for your return for none of you,” he stops to chuckle deeply for their desperate looking around amuse him greatly. “-Are leaving these grounds.” Cocking his head slightly he narrows his eyes, daring  _ any  _ of them to defy him. 

The building tension in the air that had been rising since his abrupt arrival reaches its crescendo. His wish is granted with the halfling, half cowering behind Bren’s coattails attempts to ambush him -

He is quicker. With a word and motion, he prevents them all from doing anything more and pulls upon a favoured spell in his arsenal. 

This chamber is deliberately small. Simpler to guard, easier to trap. Supposedly more difficult to infiltrate and _yet_ \- well, that is something he will ponder later. The room’s condensed size works to his advantage as he positions the centre point of his response behind them. A smirk of satisfaction splits his face as a psychic bubble pulsates outwards and encases his prey. 

As though under the effects of Dunamis, he watches on as that vitriolic hatred in Bren’s eyes widen for a moment in realisation … and disappointedly succumbs to his control. While it is not fully extinguished, that dripping contempt does dull a fraction and Trent sighs. How displeasing. He expected more from Bren. 

Fear is a weapon. A tool to sharpen, hone, and slice and cut with delicate surgical precision. It can be used brutishly- the pitiful attempt at the illusion on the grounds a prime example. But that was sloppy, dispassionate, and banal. 

No. He likes a far more  _ personal _ touch to his afflictions and ministrations. Far more effective, he finds. 

Exponentially rewarding. 

The females succumb just as easily as their hitched breaths turn to cries of terror and anguish. But he cares not for them. They are simply distractions and, if necessary, bargaining tools. The crossbow that had been so arrogantly turned his way clatters to the ground and she starts to mewl for some child or spouse. The tiefling gasps, dropping the box carelessly and looking beyond him. 

He was careful with his personal positioning, just missing the limit of this mental onslaught, and as such Trent studies the most interesting object in the room knowing the wave successfully washed over him without hindrance. Curiously, Bren’s expression does not flicker away. Hmm. The spell definitely took hold… 

Taking a step into Bren’s personal space, those unwavering eyes don’t leave his. Trent presses his mind upon his target’s and finds a pitiful amount of resistance. An easy infiltration simply highlights poor security and he is dissatisfied at Bren’s lack of defiance. All show. All theatre. 

Now, now. He definitely taught him better than this. 

There is little noise and irrelevancy to wade through- Bren was nothing if not single-minded on his task once set upon a course. This went doubly if it was of Bren’s own choice - or if he believed it was his choice. He always was more confident in those particular decisions. It was what drew Trent to the boy- that fiery spark that would flare with indignation at a challenge and raze a situation to the ground just to prove himself  _ right _ . Excessive. Destructive. _Passionate._ Bren would burn himself out first before letting anyone else whittle him away. Had a lot to prove, as a boy of his upbringing. Still does. Easy to use against him. Easy to mould. Easy to direct that unending well of burning spirit and determination. So malleable, even now. A puppet that requires no strings to control. 

Just… the right... _ fears _ .

Mortal minds operate in so much of the same way across races. He knows these labyrinthine walls well- particularly Bren’s. A little more scorched, a little more haggard and dilapidated than his last descent but the path is well-walked for Trent. He swiftly finds what he seeks with a practise no one else can claim. Only him. 

And there is the answer he seeks. 

Ah.  _ Of course. _

Bren’s biggest fears were already right here. This place, the memories. The gaps. What it represented. What he lost. The fear of being chained up once more- kept out of his own mind again. Knowing that he will not be able to escape for a second time, oh no. He himself would make sure of that. No mishaps. No lapses in security or judgement next time. No way out. 

And Bren knows this. Expects it. Accepts it. 

How…  _ mundane. _

Bren would sooner throw himself upon a blade than return here, he finds. Easily preventable enough. Trent will not grant him such a cowardly exit. But there is more to this unchanging reaction. Ah- it was because  _ he  _ was here now, too. 

To say Trent thrived on the seething rage aimed his way would be a mere understatement. This arrogant boy had defied him, wasted away his training and failed his ‘graduation’. ‘Disappointment’ was only the start. 

And yet he had managed to persevere, to rise up. To outwit him - for a small time - and try to run. 

Trent enjoyed the chase. Savoured it.  _ Revelled _ in it. It made the capture all the more sweet and gratifying. He _relished_ knowing that Bren feared him even now. That he feared capture and rehabilitation. Good. That means he was in his mind. 

_ Always. _

Fear was Trent’s favoured motivator. Nothing quite got results and loyalty like it. 

Zadash was … serendipitous. He enjoyed watching Bren cower and fail to hide his identity- Trent could almost  _ smell _ the terror radiating from him and the scent was  _ divine _ . He may as well have been yelling Trent’s name from the Victory Pit itself for all he was on guard and watching him. 

Careless boy. Mediocre methods.

Following Bren’s movements simple after which. He may be wearing a stolen veiler, but his companions were not. Foolish attachments these ‘friends’. Had he not schooled Bren better than that? His alliances had cost him any illusion of privacy and freedom, only for him to make more noise in Rosohna. 

Oh yes, he was very well aware of Bren’s activities, attachments, whereabouts, and weaknesses. In fact, Trent had calculated and projected for when their paths would cross. He used this to his advantage only a few weeks ago in Rexxentrum to remind Bren that no matter how far he runs, he will  _ always _ return and never be unchained from his past. But Trent can be patient and wait. Some prized horses require harsher breaking in than others, after all. Harder lessons. Longer punishments. He will learn his place eventually- by his side.

He was Trent’s Volstrucker first- the carnage upstairs was a visual reminder of that. Swift, effective. Destructive. 

Deadly.

He raised a ruckus, unable to tamper that flair, that…  _ joy _ he got out of such actions. He might run around with these mercenaries with fantastic notions such as ‘honour’ and ‘doing good’, but when it really comes down to it, it was Trent’s teachings that he fell back upon. That he relied upon. Those were faithful, constant. Carved into his core being now. And they always will be.

Because that’s who Bren really is. And he will  _ always _ end up back here one way or another. He will always return back to  _ him _ . A chain never to break- because he doesn’t truly want it broken. 

A perfect student who will one day surpass his teacher. 

But it will not be today. 

Bren flinches and Trent pulls back satisfied. He has seen all he needs to. The guards will be upon them soon and they will deal with all of this unpleasantry. For now, he enjoys his fun and locks eyes once more with his returned property. With a meaningful look, Trent slides his eyes left and then right with purpose. His meaning gets across as Bren stutters on his own breath. 

> _Yes, that’s right. They are weaknesses, Bren. Weaknesses you yourself brought into the Sanatorium._

Foolishly. 

This right here was his fear. This was his greatest, gravest worry- trapped, cornered, unable to save himself from a fate he does not wish to admit he wants to return to and yet willingly places his friends in the very same danger. Trent glances to the abandoned box of veilers with a disgruntled sneer. 

Such a risk for such a paltry reward. As if Scrying was the only method to track him and his companions. Bren knows this. Bren understands how this wasn't really for some amulets. No this was about so much more- testing the waters, finding his limits. Attempting revenge, and failing along the way. 

It matters not. It delivers him back to his embrace.

The halfling begins to wail, curled up on herself where she had crawled to. The tiefling has sunk to her knees reaching forth to a horror not there. 

Their fates will be kinder than Bren’s. 

He will make sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> I need a shower.


End file.
